My entire upper body snapped back right as Captain Brute drove his blade in towards my throat. He should have lopped my ducking head off, but my classic Matrix move was just enough to literally save my neck. My bill, though? That was another story. The boney blade still contacted my yapper, shaving off flecks of orange keratin as mind-numbing pain shot through my body like lightning.

I couldn’t think or react. But I didn’t need to. I was only a passenger on the meat ship that was my body. Dumbass was Captain Ahab, and the brute across from us was its white whale. The implant had an obsessive stranglehold over my body and there was nothing I could do about it. It scared the ever-loving hell out of me.

The big chicken dug his feet in and tapped his spur against the metal of the deck with a rapid click-click-click. “Impressive move, Earthling. Your reputation as a gladiator precedes you.” He flipped the sickle over to the other hand and swiped it through the air. “This is going to be more enjoyable than I thought, Mr. Crowe.”

“M-m-my name is F-F-Flap,” I forced out. “And I’m not a g-g-gladiator. I’m a d-d-d-duck. D-d-dammit, Dumbass! G-g-give me my ducking body back!”

“No can do, Flap. Too dangerous. I need to be in control here. You get yourself killed, and that gets me killed. You get me killed and, well, I'll miss out on the second coming of Mal Reyn—”

"Dumbass!" I roared in anger. "C-c-can’t we, like, work together, pal?! I t-t-thought you were supposed to help m-m-me. Not b-b-be me.”

“Who exactly do you think you’re talking to in there?” The brute narrowed his eyes. “Wait. You already have an implant, don’t you? My old—I mean, Brahma must have taken that defective piece of shit out of Leghorn and stuck inside it you. I figured he was going to have me strap on one of those ancient Saurian hunks of junk we normally stick in the accused to pass muster, but this... well, it's ducking brilliant is what it is! Clogged your cloaca before you even had to shit. Haha! ”

I ignored the Brute and used everything I had to fight Dumbass’s control over me. I dug deep, dredged up every single ounce of willpower I could find. Nothing seemed to work. But then I had a thought. Dumbass seemed to read my mind, didn’t it? It had to. It knew everything about me. So I tried a different route.

Listen, Dumbass, I thought. We need to work as a team. We’re an effective team, me and you. Don’t you think?

"You know, you pretty much just called me Sally, the human race killing AI from Oblivion, Flap? Is that what you want? Me to kill the entire human race. Or do you want to blow yourself up like Tom Cruise to get rid of me?"

Hey, there's my pal, I thought as I ignored the comment. Sorry about that. Bad choice of words. But I think we do make a good pair. Duck and computer, or whatever you are. How about this? You can be the brains and I’ll be the brawn. That’s how it should be. Right now you’re being a whole hell of a lot like STEM from that movie you were talking about. All power hungry and shit. I know it’s not your fault. Something inside of you has gone all whack-a-doodle, and you just want to save Earth because you love all the stuff in it. I do, too. And I would never let anyone hurt us, but I need to be in charge here, okay? It’s my body. We got a saying on Earth, and it's.. that you can’t always... take over someone else's... body. It’s not… right. It’s like what the Gallics did to the Dinosaurs. Enslaving another living being? Me and you, we didn't ask to get mashed together, but we have to figure out how to coexist, not control each other. You understand what I’m saying, Dumbass?

I heard a tremendous sigh that sounded like it started inside one ear and flew across my brain into the other. “Fine, Flap. I'm not stupid. I know you’re lying to me about that saying, but you can have your stupid body back. No more user lockout. Even if taking control for a second helps save our asses later down the line, I’m not doing it. Even if you beg me for help. We got a deal?”

“Unlikely, but deal,” I said as my body relaxed. I brought a hand to my bill and rubbed the place where Captain Brute had struck. To my surprise, the wound had almost completely disappeared. It was… healing? That was interesting, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I shook away the thought.

“Well,” said the brute. “Looks like you sorted out that glitch, at least for now.” He keyed a button on a gauntlet around his left wrist, and the glowing phalanx shield disappeared. “What do you say we make this interesting?”

I narrowed my eyes. “How so, chicken bro?”

“Six bucks says he’s about to challenge you to a game of chicken. Have you ever played chicken before?”

“Kind of,” I said. “I mean, I’ve fought a chicken before, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Quit talking to your AI and arm yourself, Earthling,” boomed Captain Brute. “By the ancient customs of the Gallics, the supreme race in the galaxy, I, Drok D'Rumstik, challenge you to a duel to the death!”

“Yep. Called it. Should have left me in—sorry. This is your rodeo. Have fun!"

I raised an eyebrow. “So I take it you’ve been in a duel then before, Dumbass?”

“Um, no. But I’ve seen a lot of them in movies, so… obviously I’m the best choice—I know, I know. I made a promise about not taking over your body and stuff, so I won’t. But you might want to find a weapon. Sorry, I keep interrupting your duel. But again, even if change your mind about the whole me-helping-you-not-die thing, no can do, Flappers, my man—”

“Don’t call me Flappers, Dumba—”

“Whatever. Anyway, ugly over there is getting mighty antsy. If he wasn’t a rooster, I’d say he was about to lay an egg. Since he isn’t, omelette you handle this one, okay?”

I actually laughed. “Holy crap that was bad. Even for you, Dumbass.”

“I try. I try really hard.”

“Do you accept the ducking challenge?!” barked the giant chicken I now knew had the unfortunate name of Drok D'Rumstik.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Do I have a choice, Drumstick?” I opened my eyes wide as I had a realization. “Wait. Do I get anything if I win?”

“No, and yes.” A sinister sneer spread across his face. “You earn the right to loot anything I carry, in the ancient custom. And you’ll win your life, for the moment.” He pointed his blade towards the door. “The... Sector Administrator will know that something isn’t right by now—I'm rather important to him—and whoever he sends to finish the job won’t be as… honorable… as me.”

“Right on. Glad you’re so… upstanding. I accept.” With a nod, I set to scanning the room for something—anything to use as a weapon, and when I looked at the corpse of the other Brute lying on the ground, I saw a red glow appear beneath the body.

"Not taking your body, like you asked," said Dumbass, sensing my thought. "Just... you know. Making sure everything is fair. For Drok over there."

I rolled my eyes and raised a finger. “Drok, could you excuse me for just a moment? I have to check on tomorrow’s chicken soup donation to the local shelter.”

“Your strange phrases confuse me Earthing!”

“Not surprising for a guy name Drok... uh, Drumstick. Just hang tight and try not to fry yourself. Arming myself, you know?” I flipped my very first space murder victim over and recoiled at the sight of his crushed in skull, a gaping hole of brains and meat staring back at me instead of eyes. It took me a second to force down the sick that the gore had worked up, but I swallowed it and picked up the blood-soaked item Dumbass had so conveniently highlighted for me.

Gallic Combat Spur

Rarity: Uncommon

Although it’s the standard issue bladed weapon of the Gallic Galactic Conquest, the history of combat spurs goes back millions of years. Originally made from the spurs of vanquished members of rival clans, modern manufacturing and materials cloning has practically eliminated the cold-blooded murder necessary to make a combat spur. Traditional spurs still exist, but are largely relics reserved for ceremonial purposes and duels to settle the most egregious of offenses.

I hefted the weapon in my hand. It was heavy, but not enough to make it difficult to wield. A crafty piece of work, too. Blackish bone with an ornate composite handle. The blade had a curve with the sharp edge on the inside, like the sickle on the bad guy’s flag from Red Dawn. The original, not the remake with the Australian actor whose body I deserved. And then the meaning behind the name clicked. Combat spur. It was a handheld version of the spur Sector Administrator Brahma had used to slit the throat of poor Leghorn.

A vision of the big chicken across from me flew into my mind. Drumstick was in combat, a spur held in each hand as he hacked and slashed through dozens of faceless enemies. And just when it looked like one of them had pushed through the line to attack his flank, he reached out with the natural spurs attached to his feet and did unspeakable amounts of damage. Right then, I realized just how dangerous the chickens were, despite their comical appearance. And the fact they had conquered the galaxy didn’t seem so out of character anymore.

“Okay chum, let’s do this.” I swallowed and squeezed the grip of my new weapon. I stared at him for the longest time, then shouted what I knew to be the war cry of my people. Of Earthlings. “Leeeeeroyyyy Jenk—”

“Blasphemy!” spat Drok as he rushed towards me. “How dare you wield that weapon!”

“But you told me to!” I belted out as he swung at me. I dropped to a knee just in time to duck the blow, then swung upward with my blade right towards the big brute's egg basket. It never made it. A feathered fist collided with the side of my head, filling my vision with stars as it sent me flying sideways into the same wall where the other chicken had died.

I landed on top of the body and felt something in my left arm snap. With a roar of agony, I watched as a red bar across the top of my heads up display shrunk to almost nothing. Then slowly, but surely, it flashed green and refilled. I held out the broken arm, stunned by the odd angle it hung at. Then there was a snap as the limb straightened itself, an itching sensation spreading throughout as the bones knit themselves back together.

My feet were barely under me as the Brute closed in and reined down a flurry of blows. I lifted my spur and blocked most of the onslaught before Drok batted my arms aside and hammered the tip down into the meat of my shoulder, causing me to roar in pain once again.

“Easy now,” said Drok. “Just stop fighting and I’ll end this as painlessly as possible. There’s no shame in a clean death.”

“Duck you!” I shouted as I shoved him back, using all my strength. And with the newfound space between us, I swung upward with my combat spur, ramming the sharp tip right up through his beak and pinning it shut.

He let out a muffled series of clucks as I scrambled for the other side of the room. I looked back just in time to see him rip the combat spur from his beak and throw it at me like a boomerang. It struck my foot, driving completely through the webbing and pinning it to the floor.

“Hahaha!” the Drok D'Rumstik roared. As he spoke, air and blood rushed out of the unnatural holes in his beak, creating a wet whistling sound. “You’ve got some spunk in you, I’ll give you that.”

I tried to yank out the blade, but it was buried so deep it didn't even budge. I was, for the lack of a better phrase, a sitting duck. “So yeah. I changed my mind. Dumbass! Forget what I said earlier. I could use some of that help!”

“Your AI can’t help you now.” Drok lumbered forward until he loomed over me. Blood dripped from the holes in his beak down onto my face. It made my eyes sting.

I wiped it away. “I know you were joking about not helping, so any ducking second now, you obnoxious excuse for a Samsung smart fridge!”

The Gallus raised his foot and made a swipe with his spur that passed dangerously close my neck. “You have fought poorly, Earthling. But since I am honorable, I will still give you a good death.”

He rammed his foot down. I snapped my eyes shut and waited to be over.

But it wasn’t.

Something strange happened. Instead of searing pain or the end to my infantile sapience, I heard a pop and felt a rush of air around me. I waited a quarter of a second to be sure I hadn't crossed the void, then popped one eye open. When I saw the dull light of the room and knew I wasn’t dead, I ripped both open just in time to see Drok D'Rumstik rushing at me from the other side of the room—where I had been no less than two seconds ago.

That wasn’t the only thing that had changed, though. My TOFOG shirt and my jean shorts weren’t alone. Somehow, in all the chaos, I had equipped the Saurian Skin Duster.

And that’s when it all made sense.

Dumbass, through its dumbass alien magic, had saved my dumb ass by using the duster’s Blink Skill.

And, as luck would have it, my opponent finally used his. He disappeared in a flash, then reappeared behind me right as my body snapped around and twisted away from the strike with speed that wouldn’t have been possible on my own. Then, through the magic of Dumbass, I brought my combat spur up in a blur, hacking through Drok's forearm like it was a stick of butter. He didn’t make a sound, or a cluck. Instead, Drok D'Rumstik kicked me backwards with his foot and dropped to his knees, scrambling to find his limb and the combat spur held in it during the split second he had bought himself.

As I wondered what my demented AI would make me do next, a notification popped up in my vision. I read it, smiled, and though space magic with new to me, knew exactly what needed to be done.

KINECTIC RESERVES FULL

BLINK SKILL READY

“I got it under control now, Dumbass!” I shouted as I focused on the space beside the Brute. The world around me went black for a fraction of a second, then lit up again as I re-materialized. “Hey, ugly! What do you get when you cross a chicken and a ghost?”

Drok twisted his bloody head to look up at me, the look of defeat in his avian eyes. When he spoke, it was in the most disinterested tone imaginable. “What, Earthling?”

I swung as hard as I could with my spur, cleaving his head clean off and sending a Tarantino-esque jet of blood spraying up onto my face and into my bill. It tasted foul, in more ways than one, so I spit it out onto the twitching corpse and finished what would, unfortunately for anyone following along with this tale, be the first of many terrible bird-themed jokes. “You get a poultry-geist, motherducker.”